


Chapter 3 - Calculated Risk

by Lesetoilesfous



Series: Duty [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Drama, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/pseuds/Lesetoilesfous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 in Metavirus and my 'Duty' series, updated weekly between Tuesday and Thursday. A Killugon multi-chapter AU set in late medieval Japan, in which Gon is a samurai in the service of recently successful Daimyo Kurapika, and Killua is the assassin hired to kill him. </p><p>---</p><p>Gon replies, firmly. “You do not have to do this.” Killua frowns a little. He wants to say that this is generous of Kurapika, all things considered. He wants to say that this is war, and that he is his enemy, and that Gon seems to be the only person here that’s missing that. He wants to say that this is not the time or the life or the age to try and make room for one another’s sensitivities. </p><p>He says, “I’ll be fine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter 3 - Calculated Risk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MetaVirus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaVirus/gifts).



“I’m here to kill you.”

Killua’s voice is even, but every muscle in his body is coiled, and from the nape of his neck to the arches of his feet he aches with the tension. The spell of the tea ceremony has been broken, and with it his resolve is faltering. Because this is his target: right here, not armoured, nor armed, feet away, and it would take less effort than standing to kill him where he sat. To redeem himself. To be safe again, at least as much as he’d ever been. He’d be punished for the delay but they’d be pleased that he’d killed him. He glances at Gon from the corner of his eye. The light dances over his thick dark hair like moonlight on deep water. They might not even. His spine straightens, and his hand flutters to the stiletto at his hip with a grace and a lightness belying the intention of the movement. It would be so easy. He’d been so selfish.

Several things happened at once. Gon moves, lightning fast, and his hand rests gently but firmly on Killua’s arm and he nearly shakes him off but then he sees that, to his left, Leorio has drawn a knife from the depths of his sleeve and that the blade of that knife has been caught barehanded by Gon, too. Blood runs thick and dark down his wrist like crushed berries. For a moment, they are frozen in this tableau. The flurry of movement shocked birds roosting in the castle eaves and in a shout of flaps they’ve fled into the brightening day.

Gon isn’t looking at Leorio, and so Killua does not consider him to be a threat. He himself is frozen at an angle, sinews twisting him towards Kurapika but stopped, halfway, at his friend. He has to hand it to the Daimyo. He had not so much as flinched. It’s possible that he was rigid with fear, but a quick glance at the man’s expression made that seem unlikely. He continued to wear the same mask of polite curiosity that he had when he’d delivered his inquiry.

Gon’s eyes weren’t just brown. They never had been. They were gold and copper and green and bronze, and now he was staring at Killua and he was pleading and he faltered far more quickly under the weight of his gaze than the strength of his grip. But when Gon speaks, it’s to Leorio.

“Raise a hand against Killua again, and I will kill you.” His voice is low and soft and calm. Leorio flinches back, looking, briefly, devastated, and even Kurapika shifts marginally. His movement is betrayed only by the shift and whisper of his kimono, which bends bloody light over the ceramics. The night’s rain on the castle walls and garden mixes damp wood, stone and earth with the smell of tea, sweet and subtle and hanging in stark contrast to the tension, rising.

Leorio twists his knife and Gon lets go, blood dripping onto the pavilion. The faintest breath of a frown puckers Kurapika’s brow, just for a moment. Leorio stands and Gon lets go of Killua’s arm, but not before he meets his gaze and nods, once. Leorio’s posture is taut with rage, veins bulging in his forehead and over his clenched fists like flooded rivers. He is not, Killua observes, a subtle man.

“This is treachery.”

Gon says nothing, and Killua watches, and he tries not be as hotly, painfully aware of Kurapika in the corner of his eye, within such agonising reach. The silence grows heavy enough to muffle the voices of wary birds greeting the morning, just beyond the walls in the quiet fields, or the softer drip and ripple of the still pond kissed by the fall of morning dew.

Leorio raises his chin, and Killua thinks he detects something like defeat: sadness, perhaps, in the quiver at the corner of his mouth, despite his apparent resolve. “Step outside the Daimyo’s Chaniwa.”

He means to fight him, then. Killua raises an eyebrow. He’s brave. He could not have lived and worked with Gon and not become aware of his abilities, or the clear distinction between them. A fight to the death would be suicide, certainly if Gon was the traitor Leorio suspected him to be. Death for honour. Killua tries to mask his distaste. This was one reason he preferred the Iga-ryu. They’d hurt him, of course, but only a life was worth another, at least within the clan. There was little that an assassin valued more than his eventual death, in principal there was nothing at all. To throw it away on suspected betrayal? Wasteful.

“No.” Kurapika’s voice rings clear and firm, just like his grandfather’s shakuhachi, dancing in echoes against the stone and buildings in the morning stillness. Leorio moves again, wide and wild and clumsy. Gon doesn’t. But his gaze, like Killua’s, slides back to Kurapika.

“What? With all due respect, Daimyo, I think the evidence is clear. He just tried to kill you, and he,” Leorio jabs a finger in Gon’s direction. He doesn’t react. “Is willing to let him.” His voice rises in both volume and pitch and Killua is a little stunned. He wonders how close they must be, exactly, for Leorio to so comfortably disrespect his Daimyo. Kurapika does not react to the shouting: his features remain composed, as does his posture. When Leorio’s done, he pauses before replying.

“No. If he had tried to kill me, I would be dead.” It is not the kind of tone one usually takes when stating their potential demise. Leorio stiffens, turning to Killua and giving him another once over with an expression of deep surprise. Killua offers him a wink in return, smirking, and he goes puce. A smile leaps at the corner of Gon’s mouth.

“He has considered killing me since he laid eyes on me, and he has seriously intended to do so three times.”

Killua blinks. It was five, in truth, but nonetheless that was a better guess than most could hazard. Kurapika continues as if he is discussing the weather. “First, when I asked my question. Second, when he reached for his dagger. And third, when Gon spoke to you.” Fourth when Leorio stood, fifth when he delivered his challenge. But perhaps by then the Daimyo’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. Killua continued to wonder at their foolhardiness. Kurapika lets out a long deep breath.

“It is clear that Gon’s,” his bright silver hazel eyes move from Gon to Killua, “associate. Has not yet made up his mind on the matter.” He pauses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. A muscle at the corner of his mouth jumps, and his eyebrow twitches.

“Now would both of you please sit down. This is ridiculous.” The tension crumbles. Killua stares, as does Leorio, but Gon just beams and folds with a thump back down onto the pavilion.

“Did you hear the conversation I just did? He is willing to kill me to protect him. His loyalty to that,” Killua waits for an insult that he’ll have heard before and is mildly surprised when Leorio just sputters, “man, supercedes his loyalty to you. I cannot allow that to stand. Please, Daimyo. I cannot allow such an insult to pass uncontested.” Leorio’s flush fades as his voice lowers and softens, but his resolve has not passed. Gon’s smile is gone, again. Killua turns to Kurapika, curious. He shuts his eyes. He is very beautiful: his eyelashes are fair and long and gold and they catch the light against the porcelain curve of his cheek.

“If you do contest it, you will die. And I will not allow that to pass.” Leorio opens his mouth to protest, and, for the first time, Kurapika raises a slender white hand. Killua notes with interest the bump of old callouses running over his palm. “You know very well that you could not hope to defeat Gon in mortal combat. To throw your life away for such a perceived insult would be the epitome of waste. You are foolish to suggest it and I would be foolish to permit it. Leorio.” He pauses, staring up at him, calmly beseeching. “You are not my retainer for your skills with a sword.” That catches Killua’s attention, which had been shifting between observing the singular focus that Kurapika had directed on Leorio and the way the latter had, slowly, relaxed, moving through anger to insult, defeat and then acceptance. Without saying a word, he sits.

Kurapika turns to Gon, whose expression has been carefully neutral throughout the exchange. “Besides. I imagine the situation is more complicated than it seems. “ Gon beams, and he opens his mouth, and Killua wonders what he’s going to say. But Kurapika gets there first, suddenly stony and cold.

“Nonetheless, Leorio is right.” Leorio looks surprised. “I can risk neither your treachery, Gon, nor the strength of this man’s resolve. To do so would be to place my life in the hands of one I do not know and cannot trust, and I suspect that by forbearing to kill me, he finds himself in a similar trap.” Gon’s fists clench in his lap. His knuckles are riddled with pink and white scars that he didn’t have when they first met. Killua wonders what their stories are and measures self control through long slow breaths whilst he does so.

“So I am asking you, as a friend, Gon, to detain him.” Gon’s fists clench more tightly, his knuckles going white with the strain, and Killua wonders whether Kurapika knows how angry he is. The man in question raises his hand, again, and finishes, “until such time as a decision might be reached. By each of us.” Kurapika smiles, but every line of his body is taut and Killua recognises the edges of self-control fraying when he sees them. “If you want to challenge me, then I cannot stop you. But I would urge you, first, to be sure that that path and its consequences is one you are willing to tread.”

There is absolute silence. Gon’s eyes are blazing and his knuckles have not relaxed, his jaw is tense where his teeth are clenched and his nostrils are flared and Kurapika is as still as ever but Killua can feel the cold weight of his own fury. And his brain is whirring through plans to fight or flee this confrontation without a hint of conscious thought but when his mouth moves to break the quiet it is for a different reason entirely.

“Alright.”

Gon turns to Killua with a start, the anger not yet drained from his expression, and Killua realises with something like surprise that this does not frighten him at all. He thinks that’s a weakness, probably. He says, “it’s alright. I don’t mind.”

Gon replies, firmly. “You do not have to do this.” Killua frowns a little. He wants to say that this is generous of Kurapika, all things considered. He wants to say that this is war, and that he is his enemy, and that Gon seems to be the only person here that’s missing that. He wants to say that this is not the time or the life or the age to try and make room for one another’s sensitivities.

He says, “I’ll be fine.”

He does not reach out to touch him, and some part of him wishes he were the sort of person that would. For the second time Gon meets and holds his gaze. For the second time, Killua tries, failing, not to get lost in it. The sun beats hotly down upon the nape of his neck and sweat trickles, sticky, down his spine. By increments, Gon relaxes. “Alright.”

Kurapika shuts his eyes with a sigh. Killua’s fingers twitch, but he does nothing. The wind cards a warm breeze through the whispering trees. “Thank you, Gon. And.” Kurapika stands, turning to Killua, who tenses. But he bows. Not a full bow, just the slightest inclination of his chin and shoulders, but any bow at all from a Daimyo is a sign of utmost respect. Killua is stiff with shock for a moment, staring, before clumsily getting to his feet and returning the gesture. It’s more of an awkward dip than the proper form of Kurapika’s graceful, measured movement. But assassins didn’t bow. It gave access to the neck. Kurapika straightens and smiles.

“Thank you. I realise that I am not the only one present who is risking his life.”

Killua nearly dismisses it. He nearly replies that they’re all at war and their lives have been on the line long before today. But Gon brushes his fingers, gently, as he stands too, and he starts and looks at him and see that he’s smiling again and he blushes, just a little, and mutters, “you’re welcome.”

Kurapika’s soft smile widens and he beams, the corners of his eyes creasing as strands of fine golden hair fall across his cheeks and, reluctantly, Killua sees what they do in him. “Gon, please escort our visitor to his quarters.” Gon’s smile slips. Leorio huffs, getting to his feet and beating non existent dust from his Hakama.

“Try not kill me en route, eh Gon?”

Killua raises his eyebrows, looking from Gon, impassive, to Leorio, whose smirk still has an edge of anger to it. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Kurapika rolling his, and grins despite himself. Very softly, the Daimyo clears his throat. Gon starts and turns to Killua. “It’s this way.” He gestures, bowing deeply to Kurapika before turning away and stepping down and out of the pavilion. Killua wonders if he realises how many times already he’s turned his back on an assassin. Leorio coughs, twice, and glares.

“After you.”

Killua smirks, stepping towards him, and his grin widens when Leorio flinches. In response, his hand goes to the sealed hilt of his katana, and it’s only another, louder, throat clearing by Kurapika that has them moving. Killua tuts and tosses his head. “Not worth my time anyway.” But the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he turns away. He steps out of the pavilion, squinting in the sunlight. Gon is waiting for him a little further along the path and he looks tired, now. Killua supposes that they have been up all night. He smiles as Killua reaches him, but then Leorio moves and Killua’s twisting without thinking and, again, Gon catches both of them. His grip around Killua’s wrist immediately relaxes, firm only to begin with in order to stop the force of his movement. In his other hand Leorio’s fingers spasm with the force of his grip. He hisses in pain.

“Gon! He’s a prisoner, not a guest.”

“I don’t care. Don’t touch him.” Gon’s words are low and firm and measured. Leorio growls in frustration.

“I wasn’t going to hurt him!”

“And he can look after himself.” Killua adds, mildly perplexed and a little annoyed. Gon stares before rolling his eyes.

“I’m not protecting you.” The ‘idiot’ is silent, but all too clear. Gon raises an eyebrow. “Get it?”

Leorio does, too, and looks surprised as Gon lets him go. He shakes his wrist, which is pink and white and livid and stained a little rusty by the blood on Gon’s palm where he caught his knife. “Alright. Killua is not our prisoner.” Leorio opens his mouth to protest, but Gon continues. “Killua is not our prisoner, because he is here of his own free will. I could not force him to stay if I wanted to, and neither could our Daimyo.” Killua isn’t sure, but he lets the assumption lie. “So there’s no way you could.” Leorio goes an interesting shade of purple. “If you start a fight with him then you will lose, so I am asking you, Leorio, not to. Please.” There’s warmth in Gon’s request that’s much closer to the way they were at first, and Leorio hesitates before nodding. It’s only when they start to walk again, crossing the bright red decorated bridge, that the birdsong recommences.

 

Four Iga ryu ninja had been killed in their attempts to assassinate the Daimyo Kurapika. It was why a Zoldyck had been employed in the first place.

It was marginally possible that the family darling and its heir had encountered difficulties on his assignment. But neither Illumi nor Silva found that likely. The individual capable of meeting Killua Zoldyck on his level was one of whom they would have heard already, if indeed such a person existed at all.

It was not the first time Killua had run away from them.

It would not be the last time that Illumi brought him back.


End file.
